I'm sitting here today, trying to avoid packing up my family to drive to my sister's wedding this weekend. I'm completely thrilled that she is getting married. And completely thrilled to be one of her bridesmaids (ahem, matrons, ahem). And completely thrilled that my three lovelies will help escort her down a petal-strewn path to her groom.
But I hate packing. My big-picture brain likes to argue over little details like, "Of course
I'm going to remember to bring underwear! Who forgets underwear?!
It's such an obvious, logical, thing to pack, I'm going to remember
to take it. Never fear."
Those words. Right there. Ought to strike fear in my heart.
Just between you and me, 8 years ago we moved to England for a 7 month stint and I forgot to pack my underwear. Once I actually made this discovery, I was way too embarrassed to call the missionaries staying in our TX home on furlough for those 7 months to ask them if they'd found a neatly piled stack of women's underwear in my dresser drawer. I simply went out and clothed myself in British garments and got on with my life. My husband probably said, "Aye carumba." I know I did.
So, we've established that I am not supremely detail-oriented. I have learned this about myself, and now I DO make packing lists and check sheets and mind my P's and Q's when it comes to packing and preparing for trips. But I don't like to do it. And obviously, it's a weakness for me. Which means it takes it e f f o r t. Don't like the "E" word too much.
This weekend is a BIG event, which means I have a lot of things to remember to pack, and a lot of people to pack for
, and a lot of their
things to remember to pack.
E f f o r t.
P r e s s u r e.
Y u c k y.
It's so nice outside today. The kids are next door playing happily. My garden looks lovely. There's a gigantically long packing list sitting on my dresser next to a stack of neatly folded women's underwear. And I'm not going in there. Not until the sun goes down. I'm avoiding it. Maybe if I wait it'll all pack itself.
Rather than packing underwear, hair curlers, bobby pins, little girl tights and hair spray, let's sit outside and enjoy the puffy clouds together, shall we? This is what I love about laptops and wireless networking. Would you like a glass of lemonade? I'll even tell you a quirky story.
Last weekend, I found myself in two local bookstores on two separate occasions and...
never, ever, ever should I go into a bookstore without a chaperone! Something happens to my brain and I suddenly think I'm made of money and time. I convince myself that our budget can handle $100 worth of books in one fell swoop, and that the stack of books on my bedside table that's 10 high and 8 deep still has plenty of room for a few more, and that my kids don't need to eat meals or have their bottoms wiped ever again. Something tells me this has to do with that part of me that's convinced I'll remember to pack the underwear.
So, as a nod to reality but still meeting my urge to buy a book, I usually buy a journal.
I love to imagine writing deep thoughts in a book that beckons. And these journals positively beckon me! Journals are cheaper than a book. There's much less content in a journal, so I'll be done reading in a flash and ready to get back to my 10 x 8 bookstack obligations and
my starving, unwiped children. My logic on this is fool-proof. Except for one thing...
I don't journal.
I've tried. Failed. Tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. I just don't have it in me. (But I do love to SoulPerSuit, which is a type of visual journaling. I'm not a total whack-o.)
I don't keep a journal, but I collect
them. Yes indeed. Two bookstores in one weekend and I garnered TWO new journals. I heed their siren call, and then stack them on my shelves, enjoying the variety of sizes, colors, closures, binding, and printing; imagining what I will someday (when donkeys fly) write in them.
Is there a name for this kind of quirk? The I'll-Remember-The-Underwear-And-Hoard-Blank-Journals syndrome?
Does anyone else suffer from something similar? Does anyone out there actually write
in journals? I'd sure love to shake your hand. And if you also habitually remember to pack your underwear, I probably ought to throw you a ticker-tape parade.
Ok, time to get to my packing. Starting with the underwear. See? I'm learning.
Labels: journals, packing, psychosis